


Les forces perdues

by cambria



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Dimensional Travel, I spell it Schiezka and I stand by it, I’ll attempt science, M/M, Post Conqueror of Shamballa, Rating will go up, beyond the gate, eventually, royed, soul transference, thermodynamics
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-07
Updated: 2018-09-07
Packaged: 2019-07-08 06:40:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 2,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15924974
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cambria/pseuds/cambria
Summary: Je rêve souvent de la solitude, au fond d'une campagne, au milieu des bois ; rêves de jeune homme qui ne durent guère, et s'envolent au sourire de la première espérance venue.- Maxime Du CampRoy wakes up to formulas and equations he doesn’t understand. Someone beyond the gate must know a hell of a lot about thermodynamics; however the hell that’s supposed to work. But at least it works.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [otterbatch](https://archiveofourown.org/users/otterbatch/gifts).



> A gift for a friend. Short chapters, eventual sex probably.

Come daylight, the dreams always evaporated into nothing. For a second after waking, after beginning to blearily blink and yawn away sleep, they felt tangible, real. Important. Like somehow his subconscious mind was screaming at him.

But then the sun filtered in, the dust settled and the dreams were nothing more than a vague impression.

And Roy hated it.

It had been about three years—specifically, two years, eight months and twenty three days now—since Edward had reappeared, like magic, to stop invading forces from a world beyond the Gate. In all that time, despite so many misused sources and slightly deviated funds, no one had been able to come close to finding a way to bring the Elric boys back. Not Roy with his brilliantly useless mind; not Hawkeye with her endless perception; not even Grumman with all the tactical knowledge in the world.

But every morning, without fail, Roy felt like he had come just this close of finding... something. Like whatever was contained within those nights were of some kind of vital importance. But no matter what he did, what he tried, he was always completely and utterly incapable of recalling, and therefore writing down, whatever he may have gleaned in his sleep. 

So it would have been easy to assume that this would be another confused morning spent in moderate stupour back in his faraway, frozen little outpost. But as soon as his feet hit the ground—

Loose papers. Everywhere. Under his bed, stuck to the condensation in the windows, scattered over every available flat surface. And, currently, stuck to the underside of Roy’s feet.

His first instinct is to grab the rifle at his bedside. Stops himself halfway through he motion, because there’s nothing. Absolutely nothing. No sound save for the wind outside and his own breathing and the crinkling paper under him.

A page slowly comes undone from its designated window and flutters to the floor to join the rest. 

Amidst his hysterical laughter, Roy makes the decision that maybe he’d be better off going back to Central, after all.


	2. Chapter 2

It had been a surprise to the both of them when Germany’s copy of Roy Mustang had shown up at their doorstep. Despite Hughes’ reassurances that he’s a “good man” and “wouldn’t hurt a fly even if it landed in his soup”, the brothers kept away from him, for the most part. Edward, especially; Alphonse really only made a cursory attempt. If they happened to run into each other right next to that really nice bagel place, well... happy accidents, right?

Which is how Al cones to know that this world’s Roy was particularly interested in thermodynamics. Which, really, isn’t at all a surprise. What does catch the younger Elric off guard is his investment in the idea of another world.

A few times in conversation the name Eckhart comes up. Roy speaks about how she’d had a brilliant mind, was being funded to research esoterism and its possible uses and applications. It’s frankly hilarious; there are a few times Al has to choke down his bite around laughter.

Roy Mustang jumping from thermodynamics to esoterism with just as much enthusiasm in one than the other. 

Ed really would like him.


	3. Chapter 3

The only thing that Roy can say for sure is that none of it makes sense.

He’s sat down with the most brilliant mind the military has to offer—after making up a completely bullshit excuse about why he absolutely needed to be on the first train back to Central—but no one can make sense of the formulas.

The morning he woke up with papers scattered everywhere was only the first of several. He’d originally dismissed it as a one-off thing. Sleepwalking isn’t uncommon for soldiers. Sleepwriting... is probably much less common, but not unheard of. Probably. Regardless, Roy piled he papers and put them away. And then it happened again. And again. For eight days.

Eight days he woke up feeling like he’d gotten so close to discovering something important. Eight days of waking up to a hurricane of papers everywhere, in a language he didn’t understand with formulas and numbers he couldn’t even begin to make sense of.

So he sits, in his small military apartment, hunched over the dining room table, stacks of neatly piled papers in front of him. The bottle of whiskey remains untouched, but that could change. He’s considering it.

Hawkeye would probably shoot his other eye out if she found him drunk alone again.

Throws caution to the wind, uncaps the bottle and starts downing it. He’s waited long enough in the desolate cold that he deserves to be able to get completely hammered on the good shit at least once while he’s in Central.

He learns that this is both a wonderful and a horrible idea. Because, when he does fall asleep that night, Roy dreams.

And he remembers everything.


	4. Chapter 4

 Alphonse bids farewell to Roy and begins to make his way back home. Until he hears something hit the pavement. When he runs around, he realizes it’s some _one_.

“Roy!” Al’s at the man’s side in two quick strides. He seems totally unconscious but in incredible pain. His teeth are grinding and the crease between his brows is deep.

And he’s completely unresponsive.

“Please just hang on,” Alphonse says, definitely more for his own benefit, as he hoists Roy to his feet and slings an arm over his shoulders. 

Though apparently unconscious, Roy still manages to, for the most part, put one foot in front of the other. This makes Al’s duty of carrying him easier, but no less perplexing. No one would believe that he’s _not_ carrying a passed-out day drinker.

The older man seems to begin regaining consciousness as Al fishes the keys to the apartment from his pockets.

“I took you back to our place,” he explains shortly, shouldering the door open and kicking it shut behind them.

“Alphonse...?”

Al freezes only for a second before continuing to half-drag the Roy to the living room couch. The tone of voice seems completely different. Even as Alphonse carefully lays him down, Roy’s expression seems to be completely confused. Like he’s seeing everything for the first time and can’t understand what’s happening.

When his eyes fall back to Al, something clicks into place.

“...Brigadier General..?”

Roy scoffs.

“I told you before,” he starts, digging the palm of his left hand into his eye. Must be nursing a headache. “I have that rank up years ago.”

Al doesn’t know how to react. So he does the only thing he can think of. Tells Mustang to sit still and runs back out to get his find his brother.

Roy tries to ignore the throbbing in his head and his swimming vision. This is incredibly bad. He’s either vividly hallucinating, deathly drunk, or he’s actually on the other side of the gate. Somehow. Which should be absolutely impossible in every conceivable way.

Every minute that passes feels like it rips at his mind; like something’s clawing at his consciousness, trying to knock him back out.

Or pull him back in.  
He doesn’t want to think about it

There’s no way to tell how much time passes between when Al leaves and when the door slams viciously open.

And there he is, out of breath, hair all over the place and a face that can’t decide if it’s absolutely furious or entirely relieved.

“Nice to see you, Fullme—“

“How?” Edward stomps to the couch with legs longer than Roy remembers. He can barely register the question. Al appears in the doorway then, looking even more out of breath than his brother. “How did you make it through the gate? _What did you do_?”

It’s strange to think of hands at his lapels as nice. Ed seems to notice him looking down and immediately removes his hands like he’s been scorched. Looks intently at Roy—seems to consider his face, how he’s dressed, and how he looks like he’s suffering from the world’s worst hangover—and very visibly comes to a conclusion without Roy having to say a word.

“You didn’t. This isn’t you.”

The older man throws his head back to laugh. All of this is completely insane and none of it makes sense.

“You tell me, Fullmetal; who am I? Whose body is this?”

Both brothers screw their faces in what originally seems like distaste. Sure, his voice sounds relatively similar, but maybe that's his mind playing tricks on him. Or the mind of whoever he’s inhabiting at the moment.

“What did you do? Right before this happened?,” Edward asks, still standing two feet away but looking increasingly more uncomfortable by the second.

No point in lying about anything.

“I was drinking,” Roy replies, with the ease of someone in near-drunken disbelief. He wouldn’t still be drunk, right? This body’s liver should be relatively clean, right? So why does his mind still feel so foggy? Why does he feel this strange mix of apprehensive and giddy?

“Was there anything else—,” Alphonse begins, but Roy sits up straight on the couch and effectively cuts him off.

“For over a week, I’ve been waking up with papers filled with equations. Everywhere. _Every single morning_. I don’t understand half of it,” Roy explains, trying to even out not-his voice to convey the gravity of the thing. “I don’t know how long I’m stuck here so hand me a pen and paper.

He gets halfway through a page before collapsing again.

He wakes up with his face glued to the table. The bottle of whiskey empty and a half-filled page of inexplicable equations beneath his hands.

Doesn’t matter how drunk he is.  
He calls Hawkeye.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter might have to wait a week; I had all of these written ahead of time, and this is the last I've got done already.


	5. Chapter 5

It’s not something Roy can explain over the phone. So, as usual—as they used to—when he phoned Riza, he tells her about women. It doesn’t take more than a couple hours for her to show up, with Schiezka in tow for safe measure. 

If Riza’s skeptical when Roy starts rambling on about formulas and thermodynamics, she’s kind enough not to say anything. Schiezka, thankfully, is able to make sense of everything that comes out of Roy’s mouth. They go over the pages upon pages of formulas Roy has written down in his sleep, until he comes across a page he hasn’t seen before. It’s dated, though it isn’t the current date. But Roy remembers it from a newspaper from his dream.

Can he really call it a dream?

He lets Riza lean over to read what it says. He feels like his heart has both stopped and is thrumming louder than ever.

‘ _I recognize the face in the mirror as mine. Alphonse was right all along. But this man is miserable, this man has seen war at its worst, and he feels he’s lost everything. If I can do at least this for him, if any of this is real, while I Dream in his body, I can give him as much as I can. I can give them all what they’ve been hoping for._

 _I hope you can use this, Me._ ’

It’s all so surreal and Roy has to sit down to attempt to catch his breath.

“Sir,” Schiezka pipes up. She sounds just as rattled as he feels. Both he and Riza whip their heads round. “I think I might have found something.”

 


	6. Chapter 6

When the scientist finally wakes up, he’s in an apartment he doesn’t recognize. His body feel strange again, like the limbs aren’t quite right and his mind is readjusting to himself again. He groans and sits up in a couch that could afford to be more comfortable.

It smells like tobacco and good whiskey. When he drops his feet to the ground, he knocks over an empty bottle.

“So you’re the other him,” a voice says form the doorway. When he looks up, there’s a woman he thinks might be stunning in the doorway. Her arms stay at her sides, but even he can tell every muscle in her body is wound and ready to snap.

“I’m the other him,” he echoes, running a hand through his hair. It’s odd to find it loose and wild. “Is there a reason why he’s drunk?”

“It’s the only way he found to make this happen when he wants to,” the woman explains shortly. She doesn’t move from her spot in the doorway. He thinks she might have about seven guns hidden on herself.

He nods, resting his elbows on his knees and leaning forward. Someone shuffles into the room—a living room, probably—and squeaks. He raises his head in time to see a stack of papers tumble to the floor.

“I-I’m sorry sir! I didn’t think you’d be awake! Sir!” She apologizes violently, even bowing once or twice before crouching down to pick up what she’d dropped.

“You don’t have to call me sir,” he answers, confused until he remembers who he is right now.

“This is the other Roy,” the blonde woman provides, but she doesn’t take her eyes off him. It’s becoming a little disconcerting.

The crouched girl stops for a second to openly stare. Like he’s some kind of a mythical creature.

“Nice to meet you..?”

“...oh. Oh! Schiezka! My name is Schiezka.” She hurries to her feet to walk over and extend her hand. It’s small and warm in his.

“Roy. But you both seem to know that.”

When Schiezka returns to her spilled papers, he walks over to help her despite what he’s sure is alcohol-induced dizziness. He recognizes some of the pages—they’re in his own handwriting, after all—but the rest are scribbled notes, most of them filled with question marks. As he taps down a pile to hand over, he takes a good look around the room.

There are papers everywhere, on almost every available surface, flat or otherwise.

“I take it,” Roy begins, standing and doing his best not to waver too much. “That this world really does depend on alchemy more than it does science.”

“Not necessarily more,” he blonde woman says. She’s still by the door, but has decided to cross her arms. He’ll take that as a good sign; maybe she’s realized he’s not as much of a threat as she thinks. “The science you’ve developed surpasses ours. You seem to have focused on that, while we focused on other things.”

There are so many questions Roy wants to ask. What kind of wars have they had? What’s the history? What does their medical field look like? Is there such a thing as medial alchemy? What about neuroscience?

“I’m guessing you need my help making sense of what I wrote down?” Is why he asks instead. 

Schiezka perks up and hurries over to what must’ve been a dining table at some point. Now, it’s covered in several stacks of paper, all several inches thick.

“If you don’t mind!” She exclaims, a little too happily given the circumstances, he thinks, but her enthusiasm is almost contagious. “I can extrapolate a lot of what you’ve written and analog it to systems and theories we already have, but a lot of the terminology is either too advanced or just absent altogether for us.”

“You don’t mind, do you?” The blonde asks. Her stare is hard and calculating.

Roy shakes his head and pulls out a chair at the table. Sitting down is a lot easier than standing.

“Absolutely not. That’s why I left all of this. I’ve heard Alphonse’s stories. I never thought they were true, not like this, but...” Roy looks over the table, at the empty liquor bottles. “If it helps those boys, I’ll do anything I can for as long as I can.”

“Why? Why help them?”

Roy look at the woman properly. She looks concerned. He wouldn’t quite call it scared, it isn’t there yet. And it isn’t for him, not really. 

“Because I was torn away from my home, too. But I don’t have the option of going back. If there’s a possibility to make this right, to bring those boys home, and to end your Roy’s suffering—“ The woman clenches her fists around the sleeves of her uniform. “—then I’ll do it. Just knowing this place exists at all, a world where alchemy was developed and has become so important, is more than enough for me.”

It takes half an hour of back and forth between Schiezka and himself before he feels a hand on his shoulder.

“My name is Riza.”

He pretends he wasn’t expecting it.


End file.
